


The Fragility of Winter

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Study, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Romance, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: His mind is torn between so many things: old love and the possibility of a new one; the guilt of betrayal that may or may not be warranted; staying in his familiar, though lonely life without the terror of change and uprooting everything he is comfortable with for something that is daring and exciting and has a huge chance of failure.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no idea where this came from. I was just happy as all hell that it's the autumn/winter season - as I've suffered through eighteen months of solid summer and hated every moment of heat, I suppose it was to be expected - and thus started daydreaming about scenery and romance and all that jazz. Then this fic sort of spewed out of me as written word vomit, and I'm not even sorry about it. Not sure how I like it, since it's not as character driven as I'm used to writing, but hey, I love my party king husband and I love Thorin (when he's not being a total dickhead).
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this unbeta'd piece that surprisingly doesn't have smut. Maybe I'll write some spin-off pieces with smut, who knows? God. I'll shut up now.

 

_His mind is torn between so many things._

_Old love and the possibility of a new one. The guilt of betrayal that may or may not be warranted. Staying in his familiar, though lonely life without the terror of change and uprooting everything he is comfortable with for something that is daring and exciting and has a huge chance of failure. He is just so conflicted, and his head pounds within his skull as he tries to come to a conclusion, some sort of decision that will bring the least amount of pain in the future._

_He takes a deep, icy breath, letting it scald his lungs further, and shudders._

_And as he opens his eyes to take in the heavy, grey clouds that weep silently with elegant flakes of white, he hears a deep voice whisper behind him, "_ Thranduil _."_

* * *

"C'mon, it's gonna be awesome," Legolas says with a grin.

He's wearing a _stupid_ costume really, something that might've been Robin Hood if the end result hadn't been unbearably revealing. In fact, the only thing that even remotely covers Legolas is the knee-high, faux leather brown boots that are tight around his shins, showing off the definition in his lower legs but at least covering all of his skin. Otherwise, he is wearing lime green tights – absolutely riddled with strategically placed rips and tears that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination – and his chest is clad with just a few straps of faux leather that is supposed to be something like a corset perhaps. There's a quiver of fake arrows strapped to the corset...thing, and he's carrying a bow that weighs all but nothing. He has make-up on too, thick eyeliner and gold glitter framing his bright blue eyes, his eyelashes thick with mascara and his lips shiny with gloss, bringing out the natural pinkness of his mouth. He _thinks_ Legolas's blush is natural, the colour bright on his cheekbones in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin, but as far as Thranduil knows, his son went completely mad and applied liberal amounts of rogue to his cheeks.

Glancing down once, Thranduil is appalled that Legolas is clearly not wearing undergarments. There are no lines, for one, and besides, pants would be hard to hide when he has twin rips that stretch against his narrow hips.

Thranduil is _so_ glad that Legolas has been in a committed relationship with the same person for seven years. Otherwise, he's pretty sure his heart would fail.

"I mean, look at you! You're looking fantastic, Father, and I'm sure all the pretty ladies are going to be falling all over you," Legolas continues, using a sponge underneath Thranduil's eyes to cover the dark circles that have been there since Legolas was a small child.

Obligingly, Thranduil glances at the floor-length mirror in front of him, takes in his own costume – some sort of silver gown thing that opens at the bottom, grey trousers that aren't skin-tight but are formfitting, his own knee-high boots that are the same grey as his trousers, a fake sword at his hip, an eerie crown with red berries on his head that reminds him of something in a fantasy epic, and fake elf ears that itch something fierce – before averting his gaze, not comfortable with his reflection even though he knows in an abstract way that he's conventionally attractive (and used to flaunt it to his whim when he was a younger man).

"I don't want women to be falling over me," Thranduil drawls, obediently closing his eyes so Legolas can smear concealer on his lids as well.

"Fine," Legolas scoffs, though there's amusement in his tone, "all the boys, then."

Thranduil opens his eyes to glare at his only son, only getting a click of Legolas's tongue in reply, and then closes them again so Legolas can finish.

"Anyway, it'll be fun," Legolas rambles on, stepping back and running his fingers through Thranduil's hair a few more times. Thranduil opens his eyes for good then, taking in the form of Legolas as his son sticks out his tongue slightly in concentration. Then, once Legolas seems to be content with his fiddling, he says, "And even if it's not fun in the conventional sense for you, at least there will be loads of wine and ale, so you can get drunk to your heart's content."

"Getting drunk will not showcase your..." Thranduil glances again at the mirror, as if once again confirming that he is what Legolas says he is. "...Elvenking very well, I should think."

Legolas shrugs. "Maybe Elvenkings like to party just as much as the next dude. Besides, you're just showcasing my awesome costuming skills, not acting in a movie. As long as you twirl prettily for the cameras at the beginning, you'll be fine doing whatever you want."

Thranduil is slightly offended that Legolas thinks he _twirls_ , but ignores this as he questions offhandedly, "So this means that I can pose for your cameras and then leave, since I clearly won't be needed?"

Legolas frowns at him, unamused. "No," Legolas dead-pans, "you will suffer in silence for at least two hours to support your darling, accomplished son."

Thranduil sighs and accepts his fate.

Legolas is a fashion designer by trade, his own _Greenleaf_ label worth a good seven billion pounds, all of his products vegan and cruelty free, but he likes to design things outside of marketability sometimes. The Hallowe'en costumes that he churns out for his friends and family (and a few well-paying clients) are limited edition treasures that magazines and consumers across the globe covet. There is always a huge spread in the big magazines that is dedicated to Legolas's fun creations every year, at Hallowe'en as well as the other major holidays like Christmas.

So it's really no hardship that Thranduil has to show off the admittedly gorgeous costume to the masses. He's practically a walking advertisement to _Greenleaf_ anyway, constantly wearing custom works that Legolas designs for him. He wears other labels too (because there's only so many clothes he owns and so many variations to wear them in), but the vast majority of his wardrobe consists of _Greenleaf_. The Elvenking costume is just another tally on the board, really.

Legolas chatters on, filling up the silence with ease as they make their way to the exclusive party in the rented limousine. It's been years since he's been to one of these, five years in fact, and while he used to relish in the experience, now it only brings exhaustion and grief. The parties, filled with the elite and famous and wealthy and beautiful, were ones that he frequented with his late wife, where they had danced and drank and consumed each other with love and familiar companionship.

He isn't sure how he feels, being dragged to one with his beloved son and without Aredhel by his side. It feels wrong somehow, to not have her delicate hand in his, to not smell her sweet perfume in her golden hair, to not be dazzled by the sight of her in her evening wear.

But he hasn't been out of this world since she died, not even to support his son, and he figures that five years is long enough to shy away from his duties as both a father and a socialite. He knows in his heart that even if he is wary of the spectacle, it is something that Aredhel would be exuberant about, and he can stomach a night of being in the spotlight for both her and Legolas.

And spotlight there will be – after all, it will be the first time in five years that the press will glimpse his countenance, as he has hidden himself very well indeed over the past half-decade.

They approach the party, and in effect every photographer that surrounds the red carpet leading to the doors of their location, and Thranduil works to put on his trademark face, aloof and cold but somehow exotic and beckoning. He breathes calmly, trying to steady the inner turmoil that threatens his façade, because he doesn't want to burden Legolas with his turbulent emotions.

He simply needs to get his act together, because he mastered said façade decades ago, before Legolas was even born, and he should be able to adorn it as easily as breathing.

The car stops, and by the time he nods to Legolas, he's ready as he'll ever be, his face wearing the illusion like a snug latex glove.

They walk out to the insanity, heads held high and strides graceful, the flash of lights from cameras blinding but familiar.

* * *

Thranduil had been 'discovered' while walking down a busy London street at fifteen.

He had been with a few of his close friends, shopping for the latest trends and sipping pretentious coffee orders, drunk on life and youth. He had been wearing something glamorous, though he couldn't remember quite what the outfit had been, and had been overloaded with designer bags filled with new acquisitions. He had gossiped about his fellow classmates to his friends, all of them laughing uproariously at the drama that came with a group of wealthy boys that resided at a boarding school nine months of the year, and had been simultaneously texting other friends about how he wanted to jump off a bridge to escape his current company.

The lovely, middle-aged woman had stopped him right in front of a boutique, her brown eyes the size of stars, and had practically shoved a business card down his throat in her quest to get him into her agency.

He had laughed about it with his friends for a few hours, and then had confidently proclaimed that he would go see her boss, because _obviously_ he was gorgeous enough to be a model, and _obviously_ he would finally be able to do something fun before he was forced to go to law school like his overbearing father demanded.

He had walked into that modelling agency as a normal aristocrat, with a wealthy heritage and a mountain of expectations over his head, and had walked out of it trembling with the adrenaline of his teenaged rebellion, already having snapped a ridiculous amount of polaroids and signed a preliminary contract.

It had caused a large rift in his household, but eventually his mother had made Oropher see reason: Thranduil was fifteen, and better that he get his youthful enthusiasm out of his system before law school started, and if anything, modelling would make him more alluring to his future business partners. Oropher had been reluctant at best, outwardly proclaiming that male modelling was 'fruity' and 'unprofessional', but had eventually conceded, cowed by the uniform force that was Thranduil and Elendil.

So he had signed Thranduil's contract (with stipulations on clothing and merchandise, of course), and Thranduil had finally been set free to taste the glamour of the high life. He had booked his first job within a week, and had filled up his summer obscenely fast, and was even given special permission (with a hefty bribe by his parents, no doubt) by his headmaster at school to take long weekends to shoot because Thranduil was in such a high demand.

Perhaps Oropher had expected that Thranduil would tire of the hard work, the constant politics and cut-throat competition, and would eventually settle down enough to do his duty as a future lawyer for their law firm, but it never happened. When Thranduil turned seventeen, already dating his future wife (who was already pregnant, to Oropher's horror), Oropher had demanded that Thranduil go to law school (and for Aredhel to abort the child) but Thranduil had revolted. _Intensely_. It resulted in the permanent severance of their relationship through a familial divorce, leaving him a legal adult five weeks after his seventeenth birthday, though Thranduil stayed in touch with his mother until her death when he was twenty-four. Thranduil never regretted it, especially when his son was born a few months after the dramatics, making him the happiest man on the planet.

He continued to travel, getting signed by multiple agencies around the globe – Milan, London, New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Moscow, et cetera – and making a name for himself. His willingness to model multiple genders and androgynous styles set him apart as well, since he wasn't trans or fluid like many of the others that adorned both sides of the clothing aisle. By the time he was twenty, he was considered the only _real_ male supermodel in the business, an exceedingly rare honour that had never _really_ been given to a man before.

His wife, also classified as a supermodel herself, travelled with him as much as she could and he with her, at least when they weren't desperate for periodic isolation, and when they were forced to be parted, one of them took Legolas (and his tutors) with them. When they had mutual downtime, they lounged away in their home in the northeast of England, playing with their son and exploring the nooks and crannies of the nearest villages, not bothering to travel for personal reasons because they already did more than enough of that professionally.

It hadn't been the most conventional upbringing for Legolas, but Thranduil's son had been submerged in the fashion industry as well, even doing his own campaigns with children's wear when he expressed interest in it (though that hadn't lasted too long, Legolas always being more interested in the fashion itself rather than modelling it).

They had been unbelievably happy together, even when Legolas had taken his A-levels at sixteen and hopped off to university to study fashion design and marketing.

Then, when Thranduil had been thirty-four and Legolas seventeen, their worlds had crashed down upon them.

Aredhel had been in a car accident in Rome that had proved fatal, making her almost unrecognisable and forcing them to bury her in a closed casket. It had been an appropriately rainy day when they had buried her, the sky weeping for the loss of someone so beautiful, and after the funeral Thranduil had disappeared into their shared home in Northumberland and hadn't resurfaced, breaking all his contracts for sizeable funds and shunning the outside world.

He hadn't left that property for five years except on a handful of occasions, and even then it had been utterly private affairs, media blackouts under threat of imprisonment keeping the paparazzi at bay.

And now, standing by his successful son and wearing a costume that belonged in a fantasy world, he has finally broken his self-imposed isolation.

* * *

After almost thirty minutes of pictures and videos, Thranduil finally enters the party.

It is in a grand hotel in London, and the two of them are escorted inside the ballroom by two men in impeccable tuxedos. The ballroom itself is classy and minimalist, allowing all the focus to be diverted to the elegant costumes that adorn the patrons. Thranduil allows the photographer from _Love Magazine_ at the door to snap a few shots of him, immortalising the beauty of Legolas's exquisite creation, before he makes his way to the bar for a glass of wine.

He takes a quick glance at the clock on the far wall and determines that he will show his face for _exactly_ two hours, not a minute sooner nor later, before he takes his leave.

A glass of pinot noir later, he mingles half-heartedly, knowing that he at least needs to get some face time in before leaving even though every molecule of his body wants to sit in a corner and drink himself stupid. He listens to the exclamations of his arrival from old friends and employers, gives mild but earnest accolades to his son's talent at the vocalisations of the beauty of his costume, and even insists to his old London agent that he's not planning on returning to modelling. It passes the time a bit, though he feels as if someone is jabbing hot pokers into his skull, because it's been a while since he has been in public, and back then it had been so fun and exciting to mix in with the elite. He feels so out of practise, or maybe it's because the magic of this glamorous world has died with his late wife, that he feels supremely uncomfortable, and after stomaching through it for almost an hour, he finally meanders his way towards the tables by the bar.

He's on his third glass of wine, but he doesn't feel any effect, probably due to the obscene amounts of spirits he's consumed since getting into the industry (and the increased drinking after the passing of his wife), and so he acquires another glass. Once he has completed his task, he searches for an empty table, and finding none, makes his way to where a long-haired man is sitting by himself in the corner, his back to Thranduil's eyes and letting off a vibe that he doesn't want to be bothered.

When he reaches the stranger, he briefly absorbs the man's costume – something gorgeous that screams the _Greenleaf_ label, all blues and blacks and his own sword at his hip – and takes in his face – wavy black hair with streaks of white, a handsome face only emphasised by the short beard he has and his intense blue eyes, tall even in his chair – before Thranduil says, "May I sit?"

The man looks up, appraises him for a moment, and then gestures to the empty seat across from him.

They sit in a strange silence for a long moment before the man introduces himself in a deep, gravelly tone, "Thorin Durin."

Thranduil blinks, and replies with a hint of curiosity in his voice, "Any relation to Kíli Durin?"

A hint of a smile creeps upon Thorin's thin lips. "Indeed," the man says quietly, peering into his ale quietly. "He is my nephew, and is one of the reasons I have been forced to attend this evening."

Thranduil looks over to the dance floor, where he can see the nephew in question hand-in-hand with Legolas's best friend and business partner, Tauriel Greene. Tauriel is practically a daughter to Thranduil, since Legolas had been latched onto that lass since his days modelling children's wear, and while she's been dating Kíli Durin for about two years at that point, Thranduil hasn't met Kíli's family. Well, until that very moment.

"Ah," Thranduil says, turning back to Thorin smoothly. "Not exactly how I anticipated meeting Kíli's family, but it is a pleasure to meet you just the same. I am Thranduil Doriath."

Thorin nods, which Thranduil returns, and the two of them continue to converse (somewhat stiltedly, to be honest) until Thranduil's had three more glasses of wine and is staggered that he's been at the party for over three hours.

* * *

Two days after Hallowe'en, Tauriel and Kíli get engaged.

This means that Thranduil is forced to re-engage himself in the outside world, because there is wedding preparation to attend to (they both want a winter wedding, and they want it before the year ends, no exceptions), and engagement parties, and stag/hen nights, and a thousand other things that Thranduil is expected to attend, especially since he will be giving away his pseudo-daughter at her wedding that's been scheduled for 29 December.

This results in a meeting of the families in early November so they can all but co-habitate in the Highlands until the wedding (since all of the festivities, excluding the hen night, will be in Scotland). This includes Thorin Durin, the calm but dominating presence that Thranduil thought a lot about after the party concluded. Thranduil knows that he is a high-end jeweller (and surprisingly, Thranduil has worked for their company before, back in the days when he was active in his old profession) that had inherited the family business worth about five billion pounds. He knows that his nephews, Fíli (his heir) and Kíli, are practically Thorin's own, selflessly taking over the mantle of 'father figure' after their biological father had died when they were children. He knows that Thorin is from a big family, all with their own specialities (mostly in companies revolving around precious stones and metals, construction, automobiles, and shipyards), and they quietly own half of the Scottish Highlands, particularly the sparsely populated areas around the Grampian Mountains.

When they mutually drink their poisons of choice – a dark ale for Thorin, a merlot for Thranduil – as they sporadically converse in their dark corner of the engagement party (which is really a horrendous explosion of noise and insanity), Thranduil learns much more: that he feels like he's too consumed with creating a piece of jewellery that will be unrivalled for all the ages, and therefore is neglecting his kin; that he abhors humidity; that he wishes that he could mine precious stones himself instead of running a business; that he was in a relationship with a man for ten years before their differences had resulted in a separation though they are still very close; that he wants to dig a hole in the side of a mountain and bury himself in it until he suffocates.

Thranduil shares things about himself too: how he wants to transform into a bird and live in a great forest, free from the world and all responsibilities; that he wishes that Aragorn would just get his act together and make an honest man out of Legolas; that he hates the ocean but loves the rain; how he had cried when Aredhel had said she was pregnant, first because he was _seventeen_ and _terrified_ , and then in joy because they were going to be a real family despite their young ages; that he sometimes wants to take a knife to his hair and gouge out his eyes and jump into a fire until his famous and marketable body melts because at least that would be less painful than living without his beloved.

They don't have loads in common, but they have everything in common when it comes to the important things. They both consider family above all else, even themselves. They have identical views on religion and politics. They both are filled to the brim with loyalty, brutal honesty, and stubbornness, and they don't think any of these things are faults. They both dearly miss the companionship of a warm body next to theirs, but are fiercely protective of personal privacy when they require it.

Therefore, even though they clash in many ways and had only met with each other the two times and only for a few hours at each, it isn't a surprise when they become unexpected friends.

* * *

Thranduil and Thorin are sipping their morning tea when Legolas bombards them.

"You have an amazing profile and body, Thorin," Legolas says off-handedly in between bites of toast and beans. His appraising eyes are focussed on Thorin with the intensity that Thranduil has seen only from big businessmen and women that want to market something with a model's body, and immediately Thranduil is wary.

"No," Thranduil tells his son pointedly, oozing no-nonsense from his pores, but as per usual, Legolas ignores him.

"I'm serious," he tells Thorin evenly, though Thorin looks just as on guard as Thranduil feels. "You'd be gorgeous in one of my suits. Especially next to my father, who is in stark contrast to your colouring."

"Absolutely not," Thranduil counters, instinctively knowing where this is going and not wanting the intensely private Thorin to be subjected to Legolas's creative whims. Not to mention that he is done with modelling himself, and he's not going to allow Legolas to wheedle him into a promotional campaign.

"Oh c'mon, Father," Legolas whinges, his fingers fluttering with absent excitement around his fork. "You two would look gorgeous together in the new line and you know it."

While Thranduil internally agrees with that assessment (because Thorin _is_ a handsome man and _does_ compliment Thranduil's stark, angular appearance), he says out loud, "Stick with wedding suits and be done with it, child. I am not going to model a _Greenwood_ campaign and I doubt Thorin would ever want to."

Thorin sends him a slightly horrified look, apparently connecting the dots instead of just assuming that Legolas was talking about wedding apparel in the first place, and says slowly, "I'm afraid that I'll have to agree with Thranduil on this. I am no model, nor do I have the desire to be."

Legolas huffs, and then turns to the still-half-unconscious Tauriel, who is sleepily inhaling her morning coffee so she can resemble something human. "Don't you think they'd be spiffy as the heads of my evening wear?" Tauriel mumbles a string of syllables together that doesn't resemble any language, so Legolas simply rolls his eyes and mutters grumpily, "I'll corner you when you're a functioning human being, you bint."

Then he sets mischievous eyes back on Thranduil and Thorin and says teasingly, "I shall make you see things my way, don't you dare think otherwise."

Though Thranduil knows that Legolas might be able to sway _him_ , because Thranduil has never _really_ said no to his son, he is confident that Thorin will be much more steadfast in his disregard, and therefore thinks nothing more of it.

* * *

They do engagement pictures the next week, once their clothing is arranged and the weather cooperates.

The shots are done by a professional who has sworn to keep their confidence, in the beautiful landscape of the mountains, hills, and occasional trees that engulf the ancestral home of the Durins. Since Thranduil has taken up temporary residence in the estate, he has explored these lands, all of the hills that take his breath away, the shadow of the western Grampians with Ben Nevis as its peak, the enclaves of woods that holds all manners of natural life. It is a stark contrast to where Thranduil lives – his private property near Butteryhaugh and its forests and rivers that speak to his very soul – and he very much enjoys the variation. Thorin's ancestral home is exactly what Thranduil would've imagined if he had gotten to know Thorin before arriving at the property.

They're all dressed quite dashingly, all of the engagement clothing designed by Legolas and Tauriel months ago in preparation of the imminent engagement, and Thranduil is incredibly comfortable in the posh suit he adorns. He has, after all, spent most of his life in a suit, ranging from the days in Oropher's reign over his life and onwards in his modelling career. It is a gorgeous thing, the bold colour of blue-grey slate with a silvery blue button-up and a gunmetal grey tie, and it's matched with oxfords in the same grey as his tie. It highlights the pale waterfall of his hair, loose and lightly fluttering in the chilly breeze, emphasises the icy blue of his eyes, offsets the paleness of his skin. It's probably the most flattering garment he has worn in the past decade, and it really is a blessing that Tauriel and Kíli had decided on slate as their wedding colour for not only is it handsome on the Doriaths and their friends, but it also highly compliments even the widely-varied complexions of Thorin's kin.

There are twenty-six bodies that are in the back garden of the estate, and sixteen of those belong to the groom. Cousins and uncles and fathers and mothers, all a mad affair of loud noise and boisterous laughter. No one can deny that the Durins are a cheerful company, and Legolas finds them all delightful (though perhaps that is the suits they are wearing). They all mill around, taking direction very poorly for the pictures while chattering loudly about all sorts of things, and Thranduil is hard pressed to keep track of the various conversations that he's spontaneously invited into.

So he is relieved when the group pictures are finally complete, and they all break into smaller groups for separate photographs, namely the entire ensemble that has journeyed to the Durin estate to support the future bride on one side and vice versa on the other end. He falls back into the mindset of his modelling days, not speaking very often (though he isn't very chatty even whenever he's _not_ on a job, to be honest) and taking his cues with ease. Absently, he is amused as Legolas teases Aragorn on the latter's discomfort of formal wear, is comforted with the soft murmurings between Galadriel and Celeborn, and enjoys the quiet professionalism of Glorfindel and Arwen. In his line of vision, he can see the groom's side being much more rowdy during their photography, and he internally wonders if Thorin is _really_ at ease as his demeanour suggests or if he's just a really good actor, because he doesn't think that ex-boyfriends should be that carefree when conversing.

He's been introduced to Bilbo Baggins already, and they had hit it off rather quickly indeed, but even though Bilbo is a lovely man, he is still said man who broke Thorin's heart.

Even if Thorin doesn't admit it out loud.

Having met Bilbo himself, Thorin's reasoning behind their breakup makes sense. Thorin (despite his dislike of it) is still a well-known man, and Bilbo just wants to live in relative obscurity in his comfortable home and working in his comfortable restaurant. Thorin would move mountains for his family while Bilbo actively avoids most of his (though probably with good reason, no doubt). They're both incredibly stubborn and fight about things that they deem integral to their morality and beliefs and therefore they won't compromise on them. Thorin cares about power and money, whereas Bilbo could care less about either. And, of course, the big one...Thorin likes sex and Bilbo, well, _doesn't_.

While Thranduil firmly believes all sexualities and genders are valid and will fight to the end of time for an individual's right to be free (including himself in regards to his own bisexuality), he can't quite wrap his head around the idea of being asexual. Even a biromantic one. He is just hard-wired to enjoy sex, he supposes.

Nevertheless, Thorin _had_ said that their split had been amicable, and it sure looks like it from Thranduil's position. They talk to each other in effortless familiarity, with fits of laughter interrupting the other occasionally, and they even touch each other with the ease of old friends and partners. Their unstrained relationship despite their breakup revives a bit of Thranduil's hope for the human race, because it's _beautiful_ that Thorin and Bilbo had spent a decade together, working past their considerable differences, and have remained close friends after their separation despite the fact that they are still so obviously in love with each other.

Thranduil knows that just because two people love each other with their whole hearts, it doesn't mean that they're compatible or even _happy_. He's seen it happen before, with Aragorn and Arwen, though that split had been much more rocky (and even now, Arwen and Aragorn don't really speak, simply tolerate each other's presence because they both love Tauriel and Legolas and are willing to breathe the same air because of that).

After the pictures of both sides of the aisle are completed, the groups separate into even smaller ones. Thranduil and Legolas, as father and son. Then Thranduil and Tauriel, since he is giving her away at her wedding. And finally Thranduil and Thorin, since the two of them are both giving away their respective family member. It is very easy to fall into place beside Thorin, as they are both concentrating on getting done as quickly as possible, but near the end Thorin jabs a finger into Thranduil's side and he can't help but laugh against his will because it is so unexpected – and it tickles, but he refuses to admit _that_. He turns to Thorin with a mischievous smirk and pulls on the braid next to his left ear in retaliation, and that devolves into something quite uncharacteristic of Thranduil: a rather unprofessional, but good-natured play-fight, where they're pushing each other and trying to pull each other's hair, all while scowling playfully with some quick grins when the mirth bubbles a bit too high. It's remarkably fun, actually, and by the time the sniggering photographer has shooed them away, they're both sporting smiles that light up their eyes and flush their cheeks even more than the chilled wind has already accomplished.

They eventually all make their way into the large home for a cuppa when photos are done and the cold has set into their bones. It's surprisingly ordered, everyone talking pleasantly while Bombur and Thorin make tea and put together some nibbles, so Thranduil finds a corner that is isolated from the conversing people, content to just soak up the amiable atmosphere in the large living area.

He is surprised when Bilbo takes the armchair opposite him after a long moment of solidarity, holding out a cup of hot tea in offering. Thranduil accepts it with a quiet murmur of thanks, blowing into his cup to cool it, which is apparently Bilbo's cue to ask, "So how long have you two been together?"

Thranduil looks up, blinking in confusion because he's not sure what Bilbo's on about. He says as much as well, though his tone is even when he questions, "I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Baggins."

Bilbo looks just as confused as Thranduil as he replies as if it's obvious, "You and Thorin, of course. And please, just Bilbo if you don't mind."

Thranduil frowns, completely bemused. "I think you've come to the wrong conclusion about my friendship with Thorin, Bilbo. We are not in a relationship."

Bilbo raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Huh," he says eventually. "I suppose I just assumed, considering how you two act around each other. Reminds me of our early days, actually. Thorin's not exactly the playful type, unless it's with the boys."

Thranduil understands that at least, though he's known Thorin only a fraction of the time that Bilbo has. Thorin _isn't_ playful, actually, so he supposes that it was a bit out of character for Thorin to instigate the whole mock fight outside. He vaguely wonders why Thorin had started it, and if someone had put him up to it or he was just feeling festive due to the engagement vibes.

"I suppose he was just soaking up the energy of our families," Thranduil tells Bilbo, not knowing what else to say.

Bilbo shrugs. "Maybe," the shorter man concedes, but then he tacks on, "but it still reminds me of our early days, so perhaps I just read too much into it. Either way, I'm glad that he's made a friend that _isn't_ immediate family."

Thranduil smiles, because Bilbo sounds a lot like Legolas at that moment. Always pressuring for Thranduil to get out a bit more, make some friends that aren't in his immediate family or lifelong circle of a few friends. "Well, he is a new friend, but I'd say that he's a good one that I'll try to keep around for a while."

Bilbo laughs and says with amusement, "Hey, don't sell yourself short! I quite like you myself, so maybe you can have _two_ new friends that you can keep around."

Thranduil gives him an acquiescing nod, a soft smile on his lips, and thankfully they move onto more mutually comfortable topics like gardens and good food.

* * *

Thranduil is having his morning tea with Thorin when Legolas accosts them once more.

Thranduil and Thorin are both earlier risers, so they have fallen into a comfortable routine in the past three weeks. Thranduil always meets Thorin at the breakfast nook, which has a gorgeous view of the mountains as said nook is nestled into glass windows that jut out from the estate, because they are both happy with long silences only broken by occasional soft words as they nurse a pot of tea. Sometimes others will join them, but most of the estate's inhabitants are fond of their lie-ins, so they are rarely disturbed as they watch the sun rise over the mountains, both of them slowly waking in synchronisation with the dawn.

Legolas, though, is a ball of energy if Aragorn isn't around to keep him in check, and Thranduil is slightly annoyed that his peaceful morning is being shattered by a blond-haired spitfire cradling a laptop. He loves his son enormously, but he has grown to enjoy these peaceful mornings with only the quiet presence of Thorin to occupy him, and he can't help but wish that Legolas would just give them at least another hour of peace before barrelling in like an untactful rhinoceros.

"Got the finished digitals last night and I wanted to share..." Legolas says mischievously, a glint in his eyes as he powers up the laptop. As he waits for the computer to boot up, he helps himself to a cup tea – a pumpkin spice this time, to savour the last vestiges of autumn – and babbles on, "They're gorgeous, just like we thought they'd be. Tauriel was totally awed by them, and I can't say that I blame her." He plops a few sugar cubes into his mug and reaches for the milk, apparently unaware of Thranduil and Thorin shaking their heads at the same time, sharing looks over the table that says ' _what a waste of perfectly good tea_ '.

Legolas turns his attention back to the laptop and tilts the thing more towards Thranduil, so they can both look at the spread of pictures. Thranduil can't help but be immediately impressed by the images, minimally touched up and full of emotion. A particularly lovely picture of the soon-to-be newlyweds takes his breath away, because there is so much love in Tauriel's green eyes and Kíli's soft smile, his arms around her waist and their fingers tangled together on her stomach.

They dissect the images together, pointing out their favourites and explaining why, easily carried away with the mutually engaging activity. Once, Thranduil glances up to see Thorin quietly looking out the window, tired blue eyes flickering across the slopes and shadows of the mountains as the new sun glows gold behind them, before he focusses back on the photographs before Legolas can chide him on his inattention.

Then, surely somewhere near the end judging by how many photos they have already looked at, they hit the pictures of Thorin and Thranduil together.

Thranduil feels two things simultaneously. The first is that Legolas was right: they really are rather aesthetically gorgeous together, Thranduil's sharp angles and light colouring playing off Thorin's solid bulk and dark tones. Even their clothing is contrasting in a visually pleasing way – the slate of Thranduil's suit to Thorin's silvery blue, Thranduil's silvery blue shirt to Thorin's slate, their ties and shoes the same shape and colour but Thranduil's slightly thicker and Thorin's more narrow, reflecting the other's body type subtly.

The second is that this is clearly deliberate, and _this_ was how Legolas was going to "make them see things his way" all along.

"No," he says in a no-nonsense tone, glaring at his son and ignoring Thorin's inquisitive look.

Legolas immediately pouts, not even bothering to deny what is distinctly apparent, and he exclaims, "C'mon Father, these are spectacular! You've been in this business long enough to know that _this_ is some quality spread potential! You can practically _see_ them glossed in December's British _Vogue_ , for crying out loud!"

"Absolutely not," Thranduil shoots back, the words like déjà vu.

" _Look_ at them!" Legolas cries desperately, and begins flickering through the photographs just slow enough for Thranduil's eyes to briefly take them in before they disappear, not giving him enough time to do anything but feel like he's being hit over the head with a rock.

They're all beautiful and gorgeous and a thousand other adjectives along the same vein, the editor of the images clearly a professional, but it's when the pictures transform from the standard 'modelling glamour shots' to the playful ones that he feels himself getting a bit flustered. There's one that staggers him, where they've both dropped the fake scowls and are grinning at each other, Thorin's fingers in his hair (right before giving a teasing pull, Thranduil remembers distantly) and Thranduil's own hands on Thorin's chest, preparing to push him away in self-defence. It's _intimate_ , even though the moment itself had been nothing but good fun, and right then Thranduil can see where Bilbo's confusion stems from.

They look like two men, physically opposites in every way, that are so close to each other that barriers don't exist...where Thorin can grip Thranduil's silky hair and pull him down into a kiss, and where Thranduil can clench his fingers into the fabric of Thorin's suit and pull him even closer.

Something inside Thranduil swells and soars at the sight, whereas another part of him screams.

He can't tear his eyes from the image that Legolas stops on (both of them turned towards something in the distance, clearly distracted and bodies close in an unconscious comfort), but he manages to say in a remarkably even voice, "They are quality, I will agree without a doubt, but I still say no and I'm sure Thorin will agree."

Legolas lets out a frustrated huff of air and then starts flicking back through the pictures rapidly, stopping on the first picture of Thranduil and Thorin before shoving the laptop in Thorin's direction.

Thranduil blinks to himself for a moment, registering that his hands are shaking just slightly around his empty mug of tea, and then he internally shakes himself out of his daze so he can look up and absorb Thorin's reactions to the photographs.

Thranduil's actually quite taken aback because he can _see_ the same thoughts that are still pounding in his own head visually manifest in Thorin's eyes. He can _see_ Thorin's admiration of the contrast between their forms and the quality of the images, and the slow recognition that signifies that Thorin is aware of how intimate they are, and even sees the same amazement that Thranduil feels when he stalls on a picture ( _the_ picture, Thranduil can discern through the reflection in the window behind him).

Somehow, that's even _more_ staggering than the image itself, because there's clearly a _potential_ there that they can both tangibly recognise.

Thorin looks up and catches Thranduil's eyes, and a thousand things are said without uttering a single word, all in the span of a few seconds that feel like an age.

Legolas glances between the two of them, blue eyes narrowed as he tries to read the sudden tension between them. Like somehow it's only apparent to _them_ instead of any soul that would even glimpse at the photos.

Then Thorin clears his throat and says slowly, "I...understand what you're saying, but I'm not exactly _comfortable_ with the whole world seeing these."

Thranduil wholeheartedly agrees, because spreads in magazines are supposed to be professional and collected, not intimate like these images are.

Naturally, Legolas jumps at that. "So you're saying that you're okay with doing a spread as long as it's not Kíli's engagement photos?"

Thorin blinks and replies, "No, that's not wha—"

"I'm pretty sure that's what you said," Legolas interrupts with barely a pause, already attempting to manipulate the conversation in such a way that Thorin gets locked into a verbal contract without understanding _how_. It's a tactic that Thranduil himself has used quite extensively in his career, so it makes sense that Legolas is employing said tactic (though he hates that it's being used in this situation, because he's not sure if Thorin has a defence against it). "You said that you understood why I would want to feature these photos, because wow these could buy a small _country_ I think, so I'm totally tracking you on that. So I suppose I can compromise on the images themselves, to make it more comfortable for you if that's what you require. Or we can simply pick and choose a few of these if you don't want to have to pose again, but that's okay. We can pick the more professional-looking ones if you'd like, since the line itself is more formal-esque instead of intentionally geared towards engagements and weddings. I'm only thinking _maybe_ ten, seven at the smallest, though I'd _love_ to have fifteen, just to give the publisher a wide variety to choose from. The whole spread won't be just you two either, because we shot the other models three months ago. So only two pictures, maybe three, will even be featured in the first place, so it's not going to be this huge thrash if that's what you're worried about."

"Legolas..." Thranduil groans, distantly horrified as Thorin's face grows steadily more pink.

Legolas continues as if he hasn't heard a thing. "Now, whether we go with a few of these or you consent to another session, you'll obviously be compensated by _Greenleaf_ , though I will warn you that you won't get paid nearly as much as my father because he's pricy to book and you...well, you aren't really a model, just a random body that looks gorgeous next to Father. Though to be honest, you'll probably get an epic shit-ton of offers after this because you're an absolute _natural_. Anyway...where was I? Oh yeah, and you signed the contract for us to use your jewellery when we first shot the line, since you're the best of the best in my opinion, so there's no last-minute contracts to rush through. Anyway, what d'you think? Tauriel and I are already on board with just using a few of the engagement pictures since they're literal gold, but whatever you want, we will bend over backwards to get it done."

At the end of his rant, he shoots a beaming smile at Thorin, who is flushed and gaping with whatever emotion he's feeling. Maybe embarrassment, or anger, possibly even both. Thranduil can't really read his expression well so all he can do is guess.

"Um..." Thorin manages, and it's more of a grumble from deep in his chest than anything else.

"Well, I kind of need to know, like effective immediately, since the spread is going to be featured in December's issue of British _Vogue_ and I have to do the customary mad scramble with the publishers to get the photos included in the first place. Though the absolute deadline is in two weeks before they go to editorial, I doubt they'll do much complaining – they've been hounding me for years trying to get Father back in the business, and they're gonna _love_ you Thorin."

"So you've already completed the spread?" Thranduil finally interjects, putting some more volume than usual into his tone so Legolas won't be tempted to interrupt. "Therefore you already have a finished product and don't need more photographs to complete it?"

Legolas glares at Thranduil, knowing where Thranduil's mind is at and not liking it one bit. "Technically, yes, but these photos are perfection and I want them in my spread."

"I don't model any more, Legolas, you know that, and since you're not desperate for the added images, it's not imperative that they be included despite their quality," Thranduil tells his son, wanting to sound firm both because he wants Thorin to know that he's with him should he decline the feature and because he can feel his resolve wavering. He might not model any more, but he rarely says no to his son, especially if the reasoning is sound (and the pictures _are_ spectacular).

Legolas's next words are sharp enough to cut deep. "Just because Mum is dead doesn't mean that she would want you to hole yourself up in Northumberland and waste away. You used to _love_ this, Father, and Mum would agree that it'll be good for you live for _both_ your sakes."

It's the first time that Legolas has vocalised this, though Thranduil knows that he was always thinking it, so he is speechless. And it makes sense, because Thranduil had _always_ loved the business, enough to divorce his family and work hard and long enough to make a name for himself. Not to mention that Legolas is also right about Aredhel too...she would be devastated to know that he has cut himself off from his life's work, that he is wasting away with grief that has no foreseeable end in sight.

He can't look at Legolas any longer than that, equal parts shamed and furious. Instead, he focusses his gaze on the mountains bathed in gold, the sky already more blue than orange and pink as morning sets in fully, and lets his mind wander. He can feel both of his companions looking at him, and he wishes that he could read their minds. He wonders if Legolas is regretful of his words – though perhaps said words had needed to be said – and if Thorin pities him, or if he feels a sense of understanding instead, since Thorin hasn't been the same since he separated from Bilbo and therefore _can_ understand in a way what Thranduil has regressed into.

He is torn from his thoughts when he hears Thorin say quietly, "You're right, young one. It's not healthy for anyone to live like that. Your mother would want your father to be happy." ' _Just like Bilbo would want me to be happy_ ,' Thorin doesn't say, but Thranduil knows he's thinking. Then Thorin clears his throat and says with clear resignedness, "While I don't think that you should pressure your father to do something he's not ready for, and while I do think that you could've said that with a great deal less harshness, I am...willing to let you use these photographs to your will if he is, in fact, ready to face the world again. But only if _he_ is ready, and not a second before."

He feels Legolas's hand fall on his bicep, though he's stiff under his son's touch, but he pays it no mind. Rather, Thranduil looks at Thorin, whose deep blue eyes bore into his own so profoundly that he can feel it in his bones andin the shudder of his flesh, and with a heavy sigh that shakes when it eases out of him, he nods once.

He expects it to feel like a weight lifting off his shoulders, but instead it feels like something thick in his heart, something he should run away from but can't help but be drawn to.

It is terrifying.

* * *

Thorin accompanies him the next time he ventures into the hills and mountains.

They wander in silence for hours, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the whisper of their footsteps in the air. The brown grass and bristles stick to his boots due to the frost that has dampened the man-made leather, and the brush of icy tree branches have left wet lashes on his thick coat and the ends of his scarf. The bitter wind bites at their exposed skin, leaving cheeks and noses stained red with cold, but Thranduil doesn't mind, because there are no souls to interrupt his quiet camaraderie with the man who leads him.

They eventually find themselves in a wooden clearing that is made beautiful by the desolation of winter, a stark but peaceful glen surrounded by mountains and very far away from the crowded estate. It is in this little valley that they finally rest, Thorin shouldering off his pack so he can lay a plastic sheet and then a thick blanket on the ground for them to rest. The wind isn't as biting here, as the mountains block out the worst of it, so they're much more comfortable as they press close on the pallet and wrap up together in the blanket that Thranduil himself had brought.

Since that early morning two weeks ago, when Legolas had pushed and prodded them both to get what he wanted, Thranduil and Thorin have been dancing around each other like two creatures wary of their confrontation. Still, they are still close, even with the heavy possibility of _something more_ hanging over their heads, and Thranduil is thankful for that. Even with these new emotions trying their damnedest to mess with his head, he is grateful that they have retained this strange, but dearly beloved friendship that they have created so recently.

As they both watch the sky – overcast, the clouds heavy with impending snowfall – Thorin says in a rumble beside him, "Have you ever wanted to love again?"

Thranduil doesn't dare look towards him in fear of his emotions leaking into his expressions. He keeps his eyes on the clouds as he replies, "I've never allowed myself to contemplate it before."

Thorin is quiet for a long moment, digesting that, and then he says, "Neither have I. I always thought that Bilbo would be it for me, even despite our differences."

Thranduil resists the urge to shift until their bodies are no longer touching from shoulder to feet, and simply tightens his grasp around his knees instead. Even despite the layers separating them, Thorin is still warm beside him, and Thranduil is not willing to give up the modicum of heat that seeps into him. Hesitantly, Thranduil questions, "You thought? You mean that has changed?"

He feels Thorin shiver beside him minutely, but the man doesn't answer, opting for silence once more. Something inside Thranduil wishes that he would answer, if only to get their inevitable conversation started (because Thranduil is too weak to begin it himself), but the part of him that is frightened is relieved. He knows that they need to speak about this _thing_ between them, yes, before it starts to make their friendship strained and awkward; however, he also wants to delay it for as long as possible, because he doesn't know what he's supposed to say or feel.

In a corner of his mind, he almost wishes that he had met Thorin before Aredhel had stolen his heart and soul, because then the betrayal he feels for having affections of whatever kind to another wouldn't be real. He would be free to move closer, charm Thorin with a smile and a light touch to his chest, and they could love in harmony like Thranduil's heart yearns for.

But without Aredhel in his past and present, he would be lost and barren, and she had given him the precious gift of their son. He would not give that up for the world, even if the grief and guilt consumes him for this transgression.

And a transgression it is, for he shivers in cold and turns towards Thorin, letting the man wrap him in his solid arms and burying his nose into the warmth of his scarf as he fists his gloved fingers into Thorin's own coat.

They stay wrapped up in each other's arms for an age, breathing in skin and warmth and fabric and nature, pretending that what they're doing is simply in friendship even though the lie hangs over them like a sword above their heads.

It seems they are both in limbo, waiting.

* * *

The bride's hen nights occurs the week before Christmas, a week and a half before the wedding.

The lot of them drive to Glasgow and take a flight to Britain, landing in London by the early afternoon and meeting up with a group of Tauriel's (and Legolas's, to be fair, since the two come as a packaged deal) friends for lunch. Thankfully, the activities planned over the course of two days and nights don't include multitudes of debauchery – Tauriel and most of her company can't afford to be seen making fools of themselves in the press – so Thranduil is comfortable with the agenda.

It's the second time he'll be seen by the press since Aredhel died, and this time for a significant chunk of time, and surprisingly he's not wary of it. Legolas's words weeks ago have shaken something in him, and he refuses to hide away any longer.

The hours smooth into a rolling passage of time. Eating and shopping and salons and cinema and spas and tea stops filled with laughter, everyone full of stories to tell of the wildness of Tauriel's life, before _and_ after Kíli. Of course, on the last night of their mindless two days, they check the obligatory box and head to the Rooftop Gardens in Kensington for spirits and dancing. It's a classy place that they've frequented for years, and The Club is just an extension of that, because there's nothing more well suited to their party than a night with good cocktails and free reign of the gardens, all with a rooftop view of London.

The ten of them all spiffy up appropriately and ease into the spectacle, starting with dinner at Babylon before moving to The Club itself. They have booked the entire place and invited the usual: friends, family, people that would return the generosity of an exclusive invitation with favours of their own in the future. In a way, it's almost like a business party, since a lot of the attendees are agents and models and heads of businesses that _Greenleaf_ networks with, but all talks of business are kept silent as everyone enjoys the festivities with liberal amounts of laughter and alcohol in an effort to let the bride-to-be have her fun.

Thranduil dances copiously, accepting the hand of all that ask for his attention, and though he frequently finds himself searching for Aredhel in the crowd as he had always done in the past, it's easier than he expected to enjoy himself. He gets pleasantly drunk for the first time in weeks and works off the excess calories by joining the floor, ignoring the photos that are taken of him and focussing on relishing the party.

He is quite sloshed, though still in charge of (most) of his facilities mercifully, when he is dragged to their tables by Legolas and Tauriel, both of them flushed with exertion and their own alcohol consumption. He is distantly aware that he's about to get hounded, because anyone sitting at said table is shooed immediately so they can hog the table to themselves, huddling together so they can be heard over the beat of the jockey.

"Alright, as I am getting married and therefore can demand anything I want, I require you to tell me everything that's going on with you and my future uncle-in-law!" Tauriel yells with a demented grin that shows all of her teeth, and Legolas is roaring with laughter, banging his fists on the table and tears of mirth wetting his eyes.

Thranduil is quite impressed that they've waited to corner him while he's drunk, when his chin is more likely to wag, because he knows that they've been dying to carry out this intervention for weeks. He groans at the combined efforts of his evil children, wondering if he can just up and run off (while hopefully not falling over) without spilling out his torn thoughts like a lunatic.

Still, though, if there's anyone that he can talk to, it's certainly his children, even if it is perhaps not conservative parenting to talk about the father's love life (or lack thereof) in excruciating detail.

And knowing Tauriel and Legolas, it will be _very_ excruciating indeed.

"Nothing whatsoever, though the same can't be said with Legolas and Aragorn," Thranduil says back loudly, trying to sidestep the conversation entirely with a lie and a misdirection. If his children are drunk enough, then they'll be easy to distract with other topics of conversation, and he needs to test if the two of them are going to be easily thwarted.

Unfortunately, judging by the twin looks of annoyance he receives, they aren't going to be distracted from their mutual interrogation.

Thranduil sighs, and finally admits, "I don't know what's going on, alright?"

"What did he say?" Legolas bellows with a mad glint in his eyes, and Tauriel repeats his words with a _lot_ more embellishment, which makes Thranduil bury his face in his palms with mortification. After all, he did _not_ say, ' _I don't know what is going on between me and the ultra-sexy hunk of man-flesh named Thorin Durin, other than I totally want him in my bed_.'

"That is not what I said!" Thranduil manages in horror, though his voice is muffled from his hands. They immediately tear them off, and he tries to push them away simultaneously because they're in his bubble for chrissakes, but his children are not to be deterred.

"Tell us everything, and we'll _tell_ you what's going on!" Tauriel demands, wrapping herself around him like an octopus so he can't toss her to the floor (not that he would anyway). "Otherwise I shall weep uncontrollably and tell everyone here that you are the one who made me cry at my hen night!" For good measure, she lets her green eyes swim with tears, preparing to start one of her legendary crying fits, and Thranduil's eyes widen in response.

So without further ado, he hears himself say hurriedly, "Nothing is going on, I swear it! I love your mother, Legolas, and I'm not going to tarnish her memory by letting anyone replace her in my heart!" To his horror, he feels his own eyes start to water, and right before he clenches his eyes shut to keep the party from witnessing his misery, he sees his children share a look that appears more sober than the two of them had appeared to be.

He feels himself being dragged up, and he lets them whisk him off to wherever it is that they're taking him without opening his eyes. The music grows louder, then softens, and by the time they've stopped, the pounding bass of The Club is nothing more than a distant beat. He doesn't hear any voices nearby so he finally deems it safe to open his eyes. They're in a secluded enclave of the garden, surrounded by the miraculous green of the gardens that the staff has managed to keep alive during this winter, and he takes in a deep breath to steady himself. He feels a tad bit more composed but he's also fully aware that he's liable to burst into tears at a moment's notice if someone says the right thing.

As they all sit on the bench, Legolas says quietly, "Father, just because you fall in love with someone else doesn't mean that you love Mum any less."

Which is precisely the right thing to say.

He hates that alcohol makes him more emotional against his better judgement, because the last thing he wants is to cry on his son's shoulder like a child on his pseudo-daughter's hen night but goddamn it if he's not doing it anyway. He hates it enormously, the pressure in his head and the heat of his face and the pounding in his head and the shudders that tear through him, but in a way it's also cathartic too. It's better to have two of the three people he loves most in the world beside him while he breaks down, wrapping him up in their arms together.

When the forceful sobs trickle into the occasional sniffle, he hears Tauriel say gently into his ear, "No one will ever replace her, Thran, and no one should ever try. Thorin knows that, just like the rest of the world knows that, but Leggy is right in saying that it doesn't mean that you should be alone for the rest of your life either. Just because you lost her doesn't mean that you can't make room for someone else and be happy, and for fuck's sake, you're my _Dad_. I want you to be happy more than anything in this entire world, and if Thorin can give you that, you should _let him_."

He shakes his head against Legolas's chest, desperately not wanting to hear this, because it's tearing away at his walls and he can't _do that to her_ , he _can't_ , but then Legolas whispers, "Thorin is right...I can't push you to do anything that you aren't ready for. But I'm telling you right now that if Mum was here, not only would she be happy for you, but she would be _proud_ too."

Thranduil weeps, and tries not to fall apart.

* * *

For a week, he walks in a daze.

All at once, he tries to think about what he's going to do while at the same time trying to avoid his thoughts at all costs.

He does not meet Thorin for their ritual of morning tea and companionship, and in fact avoids him completely, and he is not blind to the way that Thorin's eyes follow him with confusion and something else that he cannot name.

* * *

He lifts his head to the cloud-heavy sky, to the flakes that gracefully kiss his cold skin.

He feels a peace in the snow-covered trees that surround him, the world in stark monochrome, the smell of wetness and tree bark engulfing him, the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots and his even breaths the only sounds he can hear. He feels as if he is the only person in the world, blessedly alone and unafraid, enclosed in by the world that has all but died because of the harsh winter.

He wishes he _was_ alone, but he's not – he's intensely cognisant of the fact that he has to return at some point, where his loved ones are waiting for him. They've surely noticed that he is gone by now, though they all have been sufficiently distracted by the presents and warm camaraderie and the mead that flows like water. He's been gone for at least an hour, long enough for his extremities to freeze and his lungs to feel like they've been seared raw by ice, and that's more than the 'brief step outside for some air' that he had excused himself with so long ago.

Despite the peace he feels, though, he's also acutely aware of the pressure behind his eyes, the lump of something akin to grief in his throat, his heart's throbbing agony even though it continues to beat. His mind is torn between so many things: old love and the possibility of a new one; the guilt of betrayal that may or may not be warranted; staying in his familiar, though lonely life without the terror of change and uprooting everything he is comfortable with for something that is daring and exciting and has a huge chance of failure. He is just so conflicted, and his head pounds within his skull as he tries to come to a conclusion, some sort of decision that will bring the least amount of pain in the future.

He takes a deep, icy breath, letting it scald his lungs further, and shudders.

And as he opens his eyes to take in the heavy, grey clouds that weep silently with elegant flakes of white, he hears a deep voice whisper behind him, " _Thranduil_."

Everything seems to stall at that one whispered word. His heart falters. His breathing stops. His eyes blur and the snow seems to freeze mid-fall. He no longer feels the cold. But then it all rushes back, the icy chill and the touch of wetness falling on his cheeks, a sharp inhale of cold air that restarts his heart.

Without turning around, Thranduil breathes in reply, "Thorin."

He can hear tentative footfalls behind him until they stop, and Thranduil can feel the very presence of Thorin at his back. He wonders if Thorin is looking at him or the grey sky, and he wonders what the man is thinking. He wonders if Thorin has the same trepidations that he does, or if he's decided that Thranduil is worth reaching for, despite Thranduil's faults.

Thranduil takes a deep, wavering breath, so cold and wanting to turn into Thorin's warmth so he can burrow deep and never resurface.

He feels the fall of two hands on his hips, even though the bulky layers he wears, and Thranduil shudders violently while trying not to lose his senses. Thorin presses close, their bodies flush against each other's, and Thorin buries his face in the fabric of his coat, right between his shoulder blades. It makes him _ache_ , his chest and his heart and his head and his mind all thundering with sensation, and _God_ , Thranduil _wants_ him, wants to hold his face in his palms and feel him between his thighs.

He can hear something in the light wind, something that sounds like Aredhel laughing brightly, though he knows that it's in his head.

"Look at me," Thorin finally says, his words but a rumble that comes from deep within his chest, and Thranduil can't stop himself from obeying. The hands at his hips do not leave his body, trailing across fabric as Thranduil turns in Thorin's grasp, until he can look into Thorin's deep blue eyes and see every flicker of emotion cross his face. Thorin's hands return to his hips, and Thranduil finds that his own gloved hands have come between them so they can grasp the wool of Thorin's coat tightly.

Thorin Durin is beautiful, angular nose and sharp cheeks flushed with cold, his lips thin and pale, dark waves of hair fluttering around his face.

"I'm tired of dancing around you," Thorin says in his deep, masculine timbre, his face so close and yet too far away. Thranduil shudders again at the sound, the _words_ , and Thorin's fingers tighten around his hips before he continues, "I'm tired of not acknowledging this, I'm tired of not knowing what this even is, and I'm so fucking tired of holding myself back from feeling this way about you." Thranduil opens his mouth slightly to speak, though he doesn't know what he wants to say, but Thorin goes on without letting him follow through, "I want you. I wanted you ten minutes after I met you. I want you now, even though you've been avoiding me for a week. I want to fight for you, even if we both might get hurt if this ends badly, but..." He glances down once, to where Thranduil's fingers are shaking against his chest, before he looks up again and finishes with a whisper, "I don't want to lose you either, and if you aren't ready for anything, if you never _are_ ready for anything, I still want this friendship with you to last."

Thranduil is still terrified, because he doesn't want to replace his wife, but he also knows that Legolas is right: loving Thorin won't make his love of Aredhel diminish. He _won't_ lose her if this happens. She'll be just as much a part of him as Bilbo will be for Thorin, despite both of these relationships being in the past, even if their circumstances are different. Thorin won't _replace_ her either, for while Aredhel has claimed a large portion of his heart, it doesn't mean that the rest of his heart can't make room for another partner.

And even though it might not even work in the long term, Thranduil knows better than anyone that life is _short_ , and he has to hold onto the good pieces as desperately as he can before death claims his prize. He has to _live_ , instead of simply existing, because what's the point of life otherwise?

So Thranduil decides that enough it enough: _he_ is tired of dancing around this too, and _he_ is tired of not claiming this love for Thorin that his heart yearns for, and for fuck's sake he is _tired_ of getting in the way of his own happiness.

Therefore, the only way he can respond is by crushing his lips against Thorin's.

The reaction is instantaneous. They pull each other close and don't bother with tentative exploration, instead moving together with tongue and teeth as fiercely as two bodies can manage. They pour every feeling into their first vehement kiss, every emotion that they have contained for too long, much too long, and it's _glorious_ , so glorious, and even if he managed break away from Thorin's mouth to begin with, he knows that he wouldn't be able to breathe anyway.

They break apart, take one synchronous breath, and then delve for more, fingers digging into cloth and tongues battling for dominance, and when they are forced to separate lest they faint from oxygen deprivation, Thranduil gasps against Thorin's swollen mouth, "You won't ever lose me."

Thorin groans, from deep in his chest, and pulls him back into another kiss.

* * *

The years go by, as they are wont to do.

Thorin's hair gradually goes more white, and his face lines with age, and his fit body becomes loose despite his best efforts, but Thranduil only finds him more handsome as the years pass and they grow old together, though they never marry.

They have good days and bad ones, brought about by stubbornness and the occasional desire for their own space, but they make it work, and the good days far outweigh the bad. They have an unconventional relationship to be sure, keeping their own properties to disappear to for weeks should they need it, but they mostly live together, alternating between Thranduil's home in Northumberland and Thorin's estate in the Highlands, and on occasion, the flat they purchased together in Glasgow.

Thranduil never models again, instead finding comfort in environmental groups and non-profit organisations that he feels strongly about. He spends most of his time enveloped within nature, travelling when he feels the itch (sometimes alone, sometimes with Thorin, sometimes with his whole family), and he's content with his life. Sometimes he misses Aredhel so profoundly that it takes his breath away, but Thorin gives him his space if he requires it and surrounds him with love if that is the cure and he is so grateful for the quiet understanding.

Thorin retires from his company at sixty, leaving _Erebor_ in Fíli's capable hands, and joins Thranduil in his endeavours to save as much of the natural world as they can, though most of his focus is on the mountainous wilds. He climbs mountains around the world as well, with Dwalin as his faithful companion, and tries his hand at creating his own jewellery, which he is remarkably good at. He never creates the unrivalled piece of jewellery that he had dreamt about, but he says that he's already found his perfect jewel in Thranduil and is content with that. Thranduil can't help but believe him too, because the love in his eyes is unmistakable.

Their family is happy and prosperous as well. Tauriel and Kíli give them two grandchildren, Fíli gives them one more, and while Aragorn and Legolas never have children of their own, they _finally_ get married and spoil their nieces and nephews with abandon. They all live their lives with cheer and contentment, frequently visiting Thranduil and Thorin when they have the time, and there is nothing more satisfying than seeing one's children happy.

And when Thorin dies at the ripe age of eighty-four, Thranduil does not despair, for he knows that he will soon follow, his body tired and his mind at peace.

He is not wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> When it comes to Thorin and Thranduil, I'm frankly quite staggered that people almost always shove them into an antagonistic relationship (platonic or otherwise). I mean, c'mon guys! I know that in the canon Tolkien universe, there are extenuating circumstances that led to their mutual dislike, but I genuinely believe that they would actually get on quite well in a modern setting. These two men are so unbelievably alike that they'd probably take over the world together, to be honest. Nor do I believe that their canon disregards translate very well in a modern setting anyway. After all, most of their hatred/dislike is fostered from the history of Dwarrows and Elves (which, omfg, Thranduil is a fuckin' SAINT to have dealt with Thorin's company in the books so graciously, because I would've axed all of 'em).
> 
> Well, either that or hate each other BECAUSE they're so similar.
> 
> I digress. Maybe I'll write a more character-driven fic about these two to really explore the possibilities. Anyway, toodles!


End file.
